The Perils of Parent Hood
by Lala Kate
Summary: A drabble series I began on tumblr chronicling the Mills/Hood family from one holiday to another. Mostly fluff. Daily life drama and laughs.
1. Pie

_So this has become a Holiday-based drabble series I began on Thanksgiving on tumblr. I thought I would share these drabbles here, as well, and plan on continuing this slice of domestic life for the Mills/Hood family on holidays throughout the year. Hope you enjoy, everyone! _

_And Happy New Year to the OQ fandom! I am honored you have embraced my writing when there are so many talented OQ writers out there. :) And yes-I'm hoping to update "Dustings of Truth" in a few days and "Pulse Points" after that. _

_I don't own Ouat. _

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><p>Turkey….check.<p>

Dressing…check.

Cranberry sauce…check.

Apple pies…ch—

Wait. What the hell happened to the apple pies?

Regina stares open mouthed at the empty counter, the pies she had spent hours perfecting today missing in action. Rolling out dough, slicing apples at the peak of ripeness, stirring, baking, wiping flour on her apron, shaking sugar from her hair, she had done it all in preparation for the large Thanksgiving dinner she had agreed to host for the Charming clan at Henry's request.

"Robin!" she cries, her chest beginning to heave dangerously. "Henry! Roland! Get in her now."

Footsteps make their way towards the kitchen, three faces peering warily through the doorway, three sets of eyes staring back at her guiless and round.

"What did you boys do with the pies?"

They stare back at her in confusion, Henry and Roland shoving Robin ahead of them into the room, his expression one of a man about to face trial.

"We haven't bothered them," he asserts with a shrug. "Have we men?"

Two heads shake vehemently, and Regina steps closer, examining them for traces of crumbs, finding nothing.

"Says the thief and his merry men," she quips, tapping her foot impatiently.

"Says your husband and your two darling sons," he corrects, stepping closer to her but stopping just short of rousing her ire any further.

"Then where are they?" she inquires with a flick of her brow. "Pies don't simply walk away by themselves."

"Are you sure about that?" Robin questions, his face creasing in wonder at something he sees behind her.

"Maybe they can't walk, but it looks like they can fly," Henry grins, and she turns just in time to see two pies float towards the staircase, her eyes widening in understanding. They all follow the desserts up the steps, around the corner, until they step into the only pink room in the house. The pies are sitting on a small wooden table, a pint-sized princess grinning back at them as she holds a cream colored tea pot over a matching cup and saucer.

"Just what do you think you are doing, young lady?" Regina questions, walking towards the child, her arms crossed snugly over her chest.

"Having a tea party, Mommy," the child smiles, her dark curls bouncing in her excitement. "Do you want some pie?"

Robin chuckles behind her, and she turns in time to see him attempting to cover his dimples with his hand. She shoots him a look of warning before returning her attention to their daughter.

"I'd love some pie," Regina begins. "But these are for Thanksgiving dinner tonight. We can't eat them now, Hope."

Blue eyes gaze back at her, a pudgy lip sticking out in a pronounced pout.

"But what will I feed Mr. Jingles?" the child inquires, pointing to the lavender teddy bear nearly as tall as she is. "He's really hungry."

"How about some chips?" Henry attempts, holding up a bag of Doritos. Regina stares at him as if he's grown another head, and the boy quickly shoves the bag into Roland's hands, feigning innocence.

"You were eating chips less than an hour before Thanksgiving dinner?" Regina asks incredulously, Roland taking one look at her expression and tossing the bag back to Henry before darting out of the doorway and back down the stairs.

"I knew you wouldn't let me steal a roll," Henry shrugs, and she rolls her eyes at him, half-suspecting her teen-aged son has a hollow leg. "What? I'm a growing boy."

"So is Mr. Jingles," Hope chimes in. "He needs something to eat, Mommy."

"Well, maybe he can come downstairs and have some nuts," Regina suggests, hearing Robin clear his throat uncomfortably. "What is it?"

"We're..ah…out of nuts," her husband explains. "The men and I finished them off during the last card game. Perhaps some popcorn?"

"I am not popping popcorn right before Thanksgiving dinner," Regina insists, taking two steps towards him.

"Why not?" Hope questions. "Snoopy did."

"That's right, sweetheart," Robin grins, the expression on his face making Henry sigh and wave them off as he leaves. "And I believe that he, Woodstock and Charlie Black had a wonderful Thanksgiving meal."

"Brown," Regina corrects, moving directly into his space. "Charlie Brown, not Black."

"Silly Daddy," Hope giggles, pointing at him in merriment, and it's all Robin can take. He moves and scoops up his daughter in one arm, Mr. Jingles in the other, looking rather proud of his accomplishment. He then glides back to Regina's side and kisses her cheek before doing the same to his daughter.

"How about you and I go downstairs, and I'll fix Mr. Jingles a piece of toast?" he suggests, Hope studying his face as she contemplates his idea.

"Alright," she agrees. "But you should fix two pieces. Mr. Jingles doesn't like to eat alone."

The child's stomach growls on cue, and Regina grins, biting her lower lip at the sight just before her.

"One piece each," she insists, pulling motherly rank. "Mr. Jingles may not be eating Thanksgiving Dinner in a few minutes, but you will be, young lady."

"But he wants apple pie," Hope states, her blue eyes turning on her mother at the same time Robin's do. "It's his favorite."

"How can you deny apple pie to Mr. Jingles?" Robin asks, and she narrows her eyes in his direction, promising herself that she will deal with her husband later. "He is a member of the family, after all."

"He'll wash his paws and everything," Hope promises. Regina reaches out and strokes her daughter's dark curls, noting the marked dimples that matched her brother's to perfection.

"Mr. Jingles will have to share, then," Regina instructs. "In order to make certain we have enough pie for everyone."

"He'll share with me?" Hope asks, biting her lower lip.

"No, my darling," Regina smiles, kissing her daughter's cheek. "With your father."

She then retrieves the pies from the table and walks past them, feeling her husband's eyes on her backside as she makes her way down the hall.

"I'll share with Mr. Jingles, but you'll have to share with me later," he announces, making her pause and face him directly.

"You really expect me to share my pie with you?" she muses, tossing him a look he cannot misinterpret.

"Every crumb and juicy morsel," he expounds, wiggling his brows suggestively in her direction.

"Only if you restock the nuts," she quips, hearing him swallow as she turns on her heels and saunters back to the kitchen, a smug smile of satisfaction warming her all over.


	2. You'd Better Watch Out

"Is that the real Santa?"

Hope's whisper startles her father, Henry jumping in before he can answer.

"Of course it is, Hope. Who else would it be?"

The girl eyes the man in red dubiously, far too observant for her four years of age.

"Do you think it is, Papa?" she questions, one dark brow flickering upwards.

"It's Santa, Hope," Neal cuts in, looking back at her over his shoulder. "And you'd better watch out or he'll put you on the naughty list for asking too many questions."

Robin feels his daughter's grip tighten, knowing young Neal has just challenged the wrong little girl.

"I'm not on the naughty list," Hope insists, drawing herself up as tall as she can. "And I don't think that's the real Santa."

Before he can react, the girl waves her hand over her head, stripping Santa of his suit and white beard, leaving him in nothing but his long underwear and boots.

"It's Little John!" Hope squeals, pointing at the large man desperately trying to find something with which to cover himself. The young children begin to scream, the older ones laugh, and Robin turns to his wife, tossing her a marked glance when he sees the small smirk on her face. She sighs and waves her hand, and a large jacket appears in John's hands, much to the man's relief.

"Where's Santa?" Alex asks, the other children taking up the child's question with increasing demand. There's a scuffle somewhere behind the make-shift podium, some grunts and protests, and suddenly a very disgruntled Leroy emerges, wearing a red hat and a half-buttoned jacket.

"Ho, ho, ho," the dwarf recites, the expression on his face anything but merry. "So which of you spoiled rotten kids wants to try to convince Santa that you've been good this year?"

Over half of the remaining crowd leaves at that, and Neal bursts into tears, reaching up for his father who tosses Regina the look of an angry elf. Robin sighs, rubbing the back of his over-heated neck, looking down at Roland and Henry who just shrug back at him in return.

"But where's the real Santa?" Hope asks, her chin beginning to quiver, her blue eyes welling up to the rim. God, he can't stand to see his baby cry, and Robin kneels down in front of the girl, kissing her forehead as he collects both of her mitten-clad hands.

"He's very busy, Hope," Robin begins, his breath visible between them. "Busy making toys, checking his list, feeding his reindeer so they'll be ready for the trip."

Her head drops, her feet moving back and forth in the snow, and he feels her disappointment, drawing her into a hug as he looks to Regina for suggestions.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she whispers, shoving her hands further into her pockets before moving her gaze to the boys. "I think we should all just go back home and have some apple cider. What do you say?"

"Sounds good to me," Henry states. "Any chance we can have some of those gingersnaps to go with it?"

Roland nods vigorously, but Hope sniffs, her mother gazing down at her with a measure of concern. Robin cradles the back of the girl's head, tousling her dark curls now dusted with fresh snow. Most people are leaving, he realizes, the snow is picking up, and he gathers his daughter in his arms, picking her up for the journey home.

"Where are all of the children?"

It's a voice out of nowhere, and Robin turns to see a figure walking in the snow, pulling a sled with a large brown sack stuffed to the brim.

"They've left, Marco," Henry answers, pointing in the general direction of the mass exodus.

"But I thought they were all coming to see Santa Claus," the old man observes, pausing to scratch his chin.

"The real Santa didn't come," Hope mutters, turning her head to see this newcomer pulling a sleigh. "He forgot about Storybrooke."

"Oh, don't say that, little _Speranza_," Marco replies, raising up one finger. "He could never forget about us."

"I don't know," Roland tosses in. "Stranger things have happened around here."

"But it's Christmas Eve," the older man insists. "And maybe-just maybe I have something here in my sack that can make you smile until he arrives."

Marco has Hope's attention, Robin notes, her sniffling against his shoulder abating little by little.

"Henry," the carpenter states. "This looks like it was just made for you." Marco pulls out a long black wooden box with a golden clasp and lays it in Henry's outstretched arms. The boy grins, opening the lid carefully, his mouth gaping open in joy as he takes in the contents.

"It's a chess set," Henry exclaims, his breath decorating the air in visible puffs. "A hand-carved chess set. Thank you, Marco!"

The man waves off the appreciation, a large grin brimming across his weathered features.

"Now for you, Roland," he continues, reaching back into his pack to retrieve a dark, velvet pouch. The boy takes it from him eagerly, shaking it before opening the top and reaching inside.

"Animals!" Roland beams, holding out an intricately carved bear and elk Robin cannot help but admire. "Wooden animals. Thank you!"

"You're very welcome," Marco replies, looking up at Hope who gazes back at him with cautious interest. He snaps then, and tiptoes through the snow to his sack, reaching in to pull out something covered in a white blanket that nearly blends in with what is falling from the sky.

"Ah," Marco urges, nudging the covered offering towards the girl. "Pull off the blanket, _Speranza_, and let's see what we have."

Robin watches his daughter extend her hand slowly, one purple mitten clasping the top of the white material, giving it a slight yank to reveal a thing of wonder.

"Oh," Robin gasps, hearing both Regina's and Hope's sharp intakes of breath. He stares at the carving of a dancer, a woman clad in a dress of spring with ribbons wound in her hair and flowing from her hands.

"Push the lever," the carpenter instructs, and Hope stares at him in a hushed awe, doing exactly as he bids. The dancer begins to twirl in place, an old melody from the Enchanted Forrest accompanying her as the bell-like music seems to merge with the snow. Hope takes it from him reverently, staring at the dancer, stroking the wood as if it possesses magic.

"Wow," she whispers, and the old man chuckles, both Robin and the boys joining him as Hope continues to stare at her treasure.

"Thank you," Regina voices, looking at the carpenter as if seeing him for the first time. "That was extremely generous."

"For the children," Marco returns with a low bow. "They're worth everything, you know."

"I know," Regina nods, and Robin hears the catch in her swallow as she moves to stand just beside him. Hope then wiggles against his chest, and he sets her down, taking the music box from her small hands as she extends it in his direction. He watches as the girl walks right up to Marco, bobbing up and down excitedly as the man leans down to meet her face to face. Small arms are thrown about his neck, and he hugs her in return, the snow fall making the scene appear enchanted.

"You're disguise is very clever," Hope whispers into the old man's ear. "But you can't fool me. You are the real Santa Claus. I know it."

Marco gives her a secret smile, placing one finger over his lip to remind her to remain silent. Hope grins, tossing him a nod and a wink. And with that, she skips back to her father's arms, waving at the wood-carver over her shoulder as they make their way home through the snow.


	3. Dropping The Ball

He has never understood the significance of a giant, lighted ball sliding down a pole to usher in a new year, but he watches it, nonetheless, the television's volume one notch above mute, and he raises his lone glass of champagne, toasting the woman sleeping soundly just on the other side of the couch.

"To us," he breathes, sipping the sparkling beverage, leaning over her to tuck a wayward strand of black hair behind her ear. She sighs at his touch, burrowing further into the oversized cushions, crinkling her nose in that manner he adores, and he smiles at her, his heart nearly full to overflowing at the life they now have.

And to think they had both believed it to be impossible just a few years ago.

He rises off the couch, cringing slightly as his knees pop, and he takes a few steps in Henry's direction, nudging his step-son's shoulder, watching as the boy's eyes blink to half-mast.

"I missed it, didn't I?" Henry questions, and Robin nods with a shrug. He then silently points his thumb over his shoulder towards Hope and Roland, dead to the world in a tangled heap of arms and legs on the super-sized bean bag sprawled recklessly on the floor. He leans down and ruffles his son's dark curls, finally getting a stretch in return on his third attempt.

"Come on, Roland," Robin whispers, tugging the boy to his feet. "It's past time for bed."

Roland doesn't even attempt to argue, leaning his full weight into his father's side as Robin's arm slides around him. Henry then gently picks up his little sister, her dark mop of curls spilling over his shoulder as her small body slumps into his chest.

"She's out," Henry mouths, and Robin nods, nudging Roland forward step at a time all the way up the staircase until he's securely tucked in his bed. He's sleeping again immediately, flipping to his side as is his habit and letting out a loud exhale that morphs into a gurgle. Robin turns on the boy's nightlight before padding quietly across the hall to where Henry has just deposited Hope on to her mattress.

"I'll take it from here," Robin assures him, and Henry smiles, leaning down to kiss his sister on the cheek before his mouth stretches in an exaggerated yawn that creases every muscle on his face. "Goodnight, Henry."

"Goodnight," Henry returns, scratching his head as he makes his way to his own bedroom. Robin bends to adjust his daughter under pink and lavender quilts, making certain Mr. Jingles is beside her lest she waken in the night and not be able to locate her favorite teddy bear. He kisses her forehead, unable to quell a smile at her sleeping form. His daughter—their little miracle, the physical manifestation of a love that had taken them both by surprise and changed everything.

Now for his wife.

She's still sound asleep, he discovers, snoring lightly even though she'll never admit to that fact. But God, she's beautiful, her hair delightfully askew, falling haphazardly over the red flannel pajamas Henry gave her for Christmas. He always marvels at how much younger she looks when she sleeps, her skin unmarred by lines of worry and shadows of regret.

"Regina," he whispers, but there's no response. She rarely sleeps this soundly, but he's glad to see it, knowing she doesn't get as much rest as she needs, understanding there are still demons that haunt her dreams and subconscious.

He bends low and fits his arms beneath her, sliding them under her ribs and knees slowly, lifting her his chest with as much grace as he can muster. She nuzzles into his chest, snorting once, and he holds her closer.

His wife. His love. The woman he would journey to hell and back for without batting an eye.

He takes the stairs carefully, reveling in how her head just fits the crook of his shoulder, wondering at how a woman who can produce fireballs at will can have such cold hands and feet. He nudges the door open to their bedroom, laying her on his side of the bed while he pulls down the comforter and sheets on hers. Then he slides her over, somehow, fitting her beneath the covers, freezing in place as she turns over and mutters something impossible to understand.

Still asleep. Good.

He moves back to her side to pull up the blankets, adoring the way her hand has moved just over her abdomen, resting there as it had so often when Hope was growing inside of her womb. He remembers the wonder of seeing her move during their first ultrasound, how he had gaped and stared, unable to speak as the image of his unborn child danced in front of him. They've discussed having another baby, but he worries about what the trauma of giving birth again would do to her body, remembering how taxing their daughter's delivery had been.

He couldn't live with himself if anything ever happened to Regina, especially something of his doing. But she brushes off his concerns, as is her defense mechanism when anyone expresses such a sentiment. Damned stubborn woman.

His hand covers hers, and she stirs just slightly, her other hand moving to rest on top of his knuckles, holding him within her grip, still strong in the throes of sleep.

"Umnmum," she mumbles, and he kisses her nose, brushing hair back from her forehead, unable to keep himself from touching her. "Come to bed," she manages, the words stringing together in a barely audible command, her eyes never opening.

"Give me a minute," he smiles, touching his lips to her forehead. He straightens up, stretching his lower back before making his way to their bathroom to brush his teeth. Damn—out of toothpaste, he notes, and he kneels down to the lower cabinet, searching through its contents to locate whatever flavor of _Crest_ he can find. He grabs a box hiding behind a stack of towels, and he pulls it out, his breath hitching in his throat as he stares at it, blinking repeatedly as he reads and re-reads the box.

A pregnancy test. The box opened, one test missing. His hand trembles in spite of himself.

What the hell does this mean, he wonders, rubbing his beard, looking back towards the bedroom, considering Regina's deep slumber and hand position now in an entirely new light. Is she pregnant? Is this an old test? Had she suspected something, only for it to turn out to be a false alarm, or is she waiting for the right moment to deliver news that would both thrill and terrify him?

He stands, staring at the box in his hands as if it were alive, and he moves to the door frame, gazing at the sleeping form of his wife. Will there be six of them the next New Year's Eve rather than five? Will she have an easier time of it this time around if she is pregnant?

And God help him, will he be relieved or disappointed if he finds out that this is all one big misunderstanding?

He climbs into bed beside her after seeing to his teeth, staring from the ceiling to Regina, unsure of what to hope for as his mind spins haphazardly out of control. She then sighs and rolls in his direction, her body moving into his chest, and he wraps his arms around her, wondering if he is cradling one or two members of his family to his body.

"Happy New Year," she whispers, taking him by surprise as she nuzzles in closer and slumps into his chest.

"Happy New Year, Love," he returns, kissing her temple as he wonders just what this new year will bring for them all.


	4. The Joy of Socks

"What are you griping about?"

She'd heard him from the bottom of the stairs, mumblings and half-muted curses that increased in volume with each step she'd taken until she'd reached their bedroom door.

"My favorite socks," Robin admits, staring back at her, his expression mirroring Roland's when he'd thought they'd forgotten his birthday.

"Socks?" Regina echoes incredulously, stepping out of the door frame and into room. "Why the hell are you moaning over a pair of socks?"

He holds one up by the ankle, a thick, gray woolen thing, obviously hand-knit, now adorned with a gaping hole through which his finger wiggles morosely.

"I'm trying to mend them," he admits just as she spies a spool of thread lying by his thigh. "But I'm not having much luck."

It is then she sees his other index finger now sporting several angry red dots and two splotches of blood.

"All that noise and grief over a hole in your sock?" she questions, tossing him a look he cannot misinterpret. "We can buy you a new pair, you know-an entire package. You can have socks coming out your ears if you're into that sort of thing."

He eyeballs her directly, meeting her gaze head-on.

"That won't be necessary," he returns. "Although I suppose that one can never have enough socks."

Her brows slide upward as his lip twitches just so.

"Then why bother with the needle?" she asks, taking a seat beside him on the edge of the bed. "You can do better than unsatisfactory socks."

He lays the pair in his lap, tracing the material with his thumb.

"Because great socks should never be taken for granted," he states with a shrug, his tone now half an octave lower. "At least, in my opinion."

"There's nothing special about socks, Robin," she argues, fighting back the urge to roll her eyes at his sentimentality even as her ears begin to heat. "God, you can get socks almost anywhere these days."

"Not all socks are equal," he returns, staring at them as if they were a living thing. "John's Aunt Phyllis made these for me. They're the only pair I have left from…"

"From The Enchanted Forrest," she finishes for him as her eyes widen in understanding. He nods, and she grins, taking the holy sock from his grasp. "Here. I can fix that for—"

He snatches it back from her before she can work her magic, dangling it just out of her grasp.

"Socks should be handled with care, Regina," he murmurs, his sincerity taking her off guard. "Socks crafted by hand should be repaired in the same manner, with great attention to detail and love in every stroke. Only then can one achieve a perfect and satisfying partnership, the ultimate goal when it comes to socks."

She shifts closer, shaking her head at his ridiculous musings as he picks up the other and waves the pair in her direction.

"We're talking about socks," she insists. "Big deal."

"It can be," he hums, inching a breath closer. "If handled properly, it can be very big, indeed. But…" He pauses, biting his lower lip as she licks her own, feeling the air between them heat imperceptibly. "It's important to be gentle when dealing with socks. No need to rush through something so soothing and enjoyable."

She clears her throat as she stares at his hands, still caressing the fabric between his fingers.

"So you think socks and magic shouldn't mix?" she muses, her thighs now as moist as her mouth.

"On the contrary," he argues. "Quality socks can create magic." He swallows audibly, his eyes darkening fifty shades. "The problem comes when you simply want to get the deed done as quickly as possible without really taking time to appreciate the socks, to absorb how good socks feel, to indulge in the comfort and warmth only socks can provide."

She sucks in a deep breath, shifting her own body in his direction.

"So you enjoy making a study of socks?" she queries.

"A detailed study," he breathes, moving his free hand to caress a lock of her hair through his fingers. "I like to memorize lines and contours, you understand, how they move with you, how they grip you in just the right places, the give and take of them around your body."

Her skin is tingling now, electric sparks shooting from her core outward.

"What if it's too small?" she quips breathily as his lips make contact just below her ear. "The sock, I mean."

"Won't happen," he whispers into her skin. "Not with quality socks. A perfect fit is guaranteed, every time. And there's nothing that feels as good as a perfect fit, you know."

Her eyes roll back in her head as a throaty chuckle escapes her.

"You may be overestimating your socks," she whispers through a wicked grin.

"Never," he mutters, his tone deep and uneven. "My socks have always been more than adequate."

She's uncertain just how she ended up in his lap, straddling his hips with her skirt hiked up to her thighs.

"So what are you going to do about the hole?" she questions as she rocks back and forth just so. He slides his finger back through it, working it around the opening, gazing at it as if it were a work of art.

"Touch it," he breathes as his free hand work around her rear end. She's burning now, her toes curled up deliciously in her shoes, her blouse somehow unbuttoned to her waist. "Feel it. Probe it thoroughly. Learn its secrets so I can do the job properly."

"And just how will you know?" she manages as his mouth hovers over the contours of her bra. "If you've succeeded, that is?"

"There's no mistaking the mind-blowing sensation of perfect socks, Regina," he hums, her blouse hitting the floor at the same time his Henley is whooshed over his head. "You should know that by now."

"Socky bastard," she dares, squealing as he flips her on to the mattress, his mouth silencing her thoroughly, the woolen socks lying all but forgotten—hole and all.


	5. Of Masks and Balls

_This installment is my response to the theme "Masquerade Ball", today's prompt for OQ week on tumblr. I took a few liberties and do hope you enjoy. :)_

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><p>The first time he'd seen her wearing one, he'd had to restrain himself from out and out laughter, her raised brow of warning the only thing that kept him from guffawing out loud.<p>

"It's a beauty mask," she'd stated flatly, her gaze steady and direct. "It's good for your skin."

"Shall I slather it all over you, then?" he'd teased. "I'd be more than happy to oblige." Her answer had come in the form of a towel tossed in his face and a bathroom door slammed with more force than necessary.

So much for that suggestion.

The second time he'd seen her in a mask was just after Hope had been born as she'd sought to reclaim her body inch by inch. Masks, manicures, waxes and new haircuts had seemed a small price to pay for the boost in confidence she'd needed, even though he'd told her she was beautiful just as she was, had gone to great lengths to assure her that she didn't need to go to so much trouble to be attractive to him.

She'd promptly burst into tears and ordered him out of the bedroom. He'd slept on the couch that night.

The third time she'd let him see her wearing one was last week, she and Hope giggling as both of their faces were smeared in the white concoction, the masks making wife and daughter resemble some sort of freakish snow people he couldn't resist photographing. Regina hadn't seemed too bothered by the fact—that is until Henry somehow discovered the picture on Robin's phone and posted it to his Instagram account.

Then all hell had broken loose. God, how he hated spending the night on that couch.

He's not certain how long he'd been dozing, but he is awakened by the presence of a certain four year old female sitting squarely on his chest, her dark curls tickling his nose as she giggles at something he can't see.

"Hi, Daddy," Hope muses, and he smiles back at her, completely at her mercy.

"Hello, Pumpkin," he returns, tickling fingers eliciting a squeal that could render those with more delicate ears completely deaf. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing," she answers too quickly, alerting him to the fact that perhaps she's been into something she shouldn't. Shit. Three days ago it had been using Regina's best make-up on herself and her favorite dolls. Last week she'd commandeered his shoe polish to shine a turtle shell and paint a mustache on her beloved teddy bear, Mr. Jingles.

"Hope Daniella Locksley," he begins, pushing himself up on his elbows as best as he could. "Have you been playing with Roland's ant farm again?"

"No, Daddy," she states, her eyes rounding in unabashed sincerity. "I promise."

Thank God. He'd thought his wife might have actually set the entire house on fire trying to kill all of those pesky buggers who'd gotten away the last time. After all, telling Regina that fireballs weren't necessarily the most efficient means of killing a swarm of insects wouldn't have been the wisest of moves when her palms were still sparking.

"Have you been into Henry's comic collection?" he presses, sensing something is up. Her head shakes vehemently, even as her eyes gleam, unleashing images of Captain America and Ironman flying from open pages and plastering themselves all over Henry's bedroom walls in a mad capped frenzy. Roland had loved it. Regina, not so much.

Being father to a magical preschooler certainly makes for an interesting life.

"Then why are you grinning at me like smug box troll?" he queries, the blatant merriment tweaking her dimples pushing his eyebrows into his scalp.

"Cause you're pretty," Hope giggles. His stomach drops as his hand reaches up to his cheek, a cake-like substance plastered across his face making his nose wrinkle in distaste.

The mask. His child has smudged the blasted cream all over his face. Great. He's supposed to play baseball with the boys in about twenty minutes.

"Does your mother know you've been using her cosmetics again?" he questions as he sets her gently aside, pushing his body up to a sitting position, feeling some of the hardening substance clinging to his beard.

"I'm not supposed to tell you," Hope answers, her brow raising just so, taking his anxiety level up with it. If Regina is in on this, the amount of damage this fiasco could inflict has just gone up several notches.

"Did you mother put you up to this?"

He's moving towards the downstairs bathroom as he asks her, his reflection conjuring up some odd resigned frustration he tries to wash away with water and his bare hands. He watches Hope shrug in the mirror, his jaw tensing as reality settles in.

"Regina," he calls through the door. "Could I see you for a moment?"

Hope scampers up the steps then, childish laughter following her ascent like a trail of naughty breadcrumbs—a trail leading to his eminent destruction, no doubt. Then the tell-tale click of heels on wood meets his ears, and he turns his body to meet his wife, her expression placid, her eyes shining in silent victory.

"This might help," she hums, dangling a washcloth from her finger that he yanks with no attempt at delicacy. "I'd use hot water, if I were you. It will come off faster and leave your skin feeling tingly and fresh."

Her smile is full as she leans against the door frame, crossing her arms as she watches him struggle to remove all traces of the mask from his eyebrows and beard. She chuckles as he fights to pull dried fragments from the hair just under his nose, his muted curses only increasing her smug enjoyment of his discomfort.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?" he asks, flicking water in her face and eliciting a squeal before she has time to react.

"Well, I was going to offer to magic the rest of it away for you," she tosses back, wiping droplets from her face. "But now you're on your own."

He growls and makes a face as she saunters off, rubbing the towel across his face far too harshly to do anything but make him appear as if he has the world's worst case of dandruff a beard has ever known.

Shit. Killian and David will never let him live this down, not to mention how Henry and Roland will react.

Just then the doorbell rings, and he hears Regina move to open it, her cheerful greeting of the men of the hour a dead give-away to the depth of her plotting. He then hears laughter—laughter at his expense, no doubt, and he throws the towel down in frustration, knowing he has no choice but to suck it up and take his medicine.

"Robin," she croons, her melodic alto silkier than usual. "You'll be late for the ballgame if you don't hurry up."

His jersey magically appears on the closed toilet lid, his cap askew on his head, his ball pants on and somehow tighter than they'd been when he'd worn them last week. Oh yes…his wife is on her A game today, and he rights his hat after tugging the jersey on and tucking it in. There's a pink, ruffled fringe on the collar and the sleeves, he sees, the lace hugging his biceps making him flush nearly the same hue as Hope's bedroom walls.

War has been declared, it would appear. He bites his lower lip in anticipation of how this can be continued later.

"Just a minute," he calls back, flicking the remaining particles from his beard, trying out a few expressions in the mirror before inhaling deeply and stepping out into the foyer. He holds himself erect, keeping his face steady as he watches her gaze travel appreciatively over his form fitting pants.

"What's with the lace, mate?" Killian asks, touching the material as if it carries the flu virus.

"It represents my belief that women should be playing in our league as well as men," Robin returns without batting an eye. He hears Regina's slight intake of breath beside him as he rubs his beard without thinking.

"I thought the league was their idea to get us out of their hair for a while," David muses, looking from one man to the other and finally to Regina who simply shrugs all too innocently.

"Even so, let it be known that I support their right to play," Robin voices, hearing Hope giggle from the top of the steps. David's phone then dings, and he tugs it out of his pocket, glancing at it in confusion before holding it up for Robin's inspection.

"Is that what this is about, too?" David questions, the photo of Robin's sleeping face covered in that bloody mask gazing back at him from the small screen in mocking accusation.

"What the hell is that?" Killian chimes in, gazing at Robin as if he's just grown another head.

"It's a mask, mate," Robin explains. "It's good for your skin."

"Good for your what?" Killian echoes, his expression puckered and pained. David chuckles then, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he eyes Regina knowingly.

"You won't be laughing when my skin feels smooth after a few hours in the sun while your rosacea flares up again," Robin states with a nod in David's direction. "And it could do wonders for the chafing around your beard, Killian."

"Chafing?" Killian exclaims as they walk out the front door. "I don't chafe."

Robin tosses his wife a smug look of warning over his shoulder, one she returns with a flick of her nose and a mock kiss as she toys with the hem of her sleeve. It's on, he thinks, patting his ass in a gesture for her eyes only as he walks steadily on towards the ball field with the boys, never seeing the sly handshake between mother and daughter just before they shut the door behind him.


	6. That Sinking Feeling

_This is my response for the Memory Loss prompt for OQ week on tumblr. I do hope you enjoy it. :)_

_I've had a few inquiries asking if these snippets are set chronologically. The first three are. The Joy of Socks can be inserted pretty much at any point in their marriage, but this one and Of Masks and Balls have moved ahead a bit in sequence. Not much, mind you, but a bit. And yes-I will be writing the follow up to Dropping the Ball to answer the is she/isn't she question. :) In fact, I hope to write it for Valentine's Day. __We'll see. I'm also trying to write the next chapter of Dustings of Truth. Too much to write, too little time!_

_Many, many thanks to all of you for reading, and a huge thank you to all who take the time to review. I cherish every note or review you leave, even if I don't have time to respond to all of them personally. _

_And with that-I'll leave you to it. _

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><p>Robin is not a forgetful man.<p>

He remembers every birthday, never misses an appointment, knows better than to forget his and Regina's wedding anniversary—God only knows what she would do to him if he ever missed that occasion. He marks his calendar to remember when he needs to change filters or batteries in the smoke detectors, uses mobile alerts for such events as parent/teacher conferences, ball games and dance lessons.

But he's forgotten something today, something he can't put his mind around. His wife's actions are making it painfully obvious.

Damn. This doesn't bode well for the rest of the evening.

"More wine?"

Her voice is smooth, her hair perfect, and she gazes at him expectantly over the lit candles on the table as he wipes his mouth.

"Thank you," he returns, wondering if she's waiting for him to offer up a toast. God, she looks gorgeous in the deep cobalt sweater she is wearing, but then she looks gorgeous in whatever she wears—or doesn't wear, for that matter. "The meal was extraordinary. You really outdid yourself."

She shoots him a private smile.

"I thought we deserved to treat ourselves today."

Today. What the bloody hell is today?

"You're always deserving of a treat, my love," he returns, flicking his brow in her direction. "No matter what day it is."

Her eyes freeze on his, her expression narrowing just so.

"Robin Locksley," she muses, setting down her glass of water. "Have you forgotten what day it is?"

Shit. He's toast now if he can't come up with a plausible answer.

"Do I ever forget special occasions, Regina?" he questions, trying to appear far more confident than he feels.

"There's always a first time," she states as she folds her hands together. She's on to him like ants on a picnic. This is not good.

"First times are rather amazing," he hums, taking another sip of his wine. "But I think we've done nothing but improve over time. Don't you?"

She chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that make his pants feel tighter.

"Why do I get the feeling that you are trying to change the subject?" she grins, pressing her red lips together in a way she knows drives him crazy.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're trying to get me to admit to something I have no intention of admitting to?"

She flashes a smile of challenge, gently tossing her napkin on to the table as she stands and moves in his direction. Shit—her hips are putting on quite a show, and she stops right in front of him, her pelvis strategically placed at mouth level.

He is going down. There is no question.

Then her fingers do the walking over his scalp, down his neck, and she sashays slowly on to his lap, giving her V-neck a tug, making a certain part of his anatomy pop up.

"I think somebody is glad to see me," she hums, positioning her succulent lips right above his.

"And I think someone is playing dirty," he observes, trailing his finger along the edge of her sweater, letting it come to a rest in the apex of her cleavage.

"You like it when I play dirty, thief," she breathes, rocking against his groin in a slow figure eight. His balls tighten at her choice of pet names.

"That I do, my queen," he confesses into her neck, lifting a section of her hair for better access. "But two can play at that game."

He suddenly hoists her up, bringing her leg over his lap so that she is straddling him in all the right places.

"My aim is ever true," he boasts.

"But your memory is off," she asserts, standing just tall enough that her breasts are practically rubbing his cheeks. "Admit it."

"Back to that, are we?" he whispers as he palms her ass through her slacks. "You seem to have a one-track mind, Regina."

"And you don't?" she challenges. She rakes scarlet nails gently down his arms, the feel of them through thick cotton doing nothing to rein in the southern portion of his anatomy. "I'd say it's rather obvious what track your mind is on."

He nuzzles her breast with his nose, hearing the quick hitch in her breathing as he rubs it directly over her nipple.

"It's a nice track," he breathes, his tongue feeling thicker by the second. "One I see no need to abandon."

She pins his arms with the skill of a ninja, binding them behind his back with what feels like a silken cord.

"Resorting to magic, are we?" he grins, narrowing his gaze in her direction. "I'd call that cheating."

"Tell me what day we're celebrating, and you'll be a free man," she murmurs directly into his ear. She takes his lobe in her mouth, letting it slide between her teeth, notching up his internal thermostat about twenty degrees in three seconds flat.

"And if I refuse?"

Her hand slide down her waist, grabbing the edge of her sweater, pulling it slowly up and over her head, leaving her in nothing but a sheer black demi bra from the waist up.

"You were saying?"

Shit. Just shit.

"Nothing I haven't seen before."

A bark of incredulous laughter escapes her.

"Then you won't mind if I get rid of these, too."

She unfastens the hook on her gray slacks, unzipping slowly, letting them shimmy down her legs as she turns her rear to face him. Of course, she's in sheer black knickers that match the bra. And of course, he's sweating under the collar.

"Nothing you haven't seen before, right?" she goads, parading around him in a sensual circle, allowing her nails to scrape the skin on his neck before she backs up just out of reach.

"You're definitely cheating now," he manages, reminding himself to breathe in and out. "And cheaters never win."

"You've been reading the wrong rule book," she teases, sliding up on the table just beside him as she removes her heels and lets them drop to the floor. Her bare foot works its way between his thighs, rubbing him through his pants right where she can inflict the most damage, making him so hot he thinks his ears must be smoking. "Now. Where were we?"

He bites his tongue, his lower lip, anything he can find to hold himself together as she wiggles her toes for maximum impact.

"Oh, yes," she continues with a wicked smirk. "You were about to tell me what occasion we're marking tonight."

She's then back in his lap, his hands still bound, and she's kissing his neck, rubbing his chest, doing everything she can to drive him thoroughly out of his mind.

It's working like a charm.

"We're celebrating us," he breathes, his tone deep and labored. She nods in his direction, sliding a black bra strap partially down her arm.

"What about us?" she questions as she rubs him in all the right places. He's losing his mind, his will-power hangs by a thread, and his need to prove a point is quickly succumbing to his need for her. Then she's kissing his neck and unbuttoning his shirt, setting off alarm bells in his head that push him past the breaking point.

"Robin?" she whispers. "Do you have an answer?"

"I don't."

His head sags in shame as his admission flies out of his mouth, his chest deflating like a punctured balloon. She pushes herself back from his body, her eyes heavy with something that looks an awful lot like hurt.

Shit. That's the last thing he wanted to see tonight.

"I'm sorry, Regina, but I can't remember," he continues. She unbinds him with a flick of her hand, allowing him to bring his arms around her body even as she remains mostly immobile. Her skin is chilled, her limbs tight, and he touches his forehead to hers, hoping she can sense at least a measure of his regret in letting her down.

"I know I've disappointed you, and for that I am sorry," he expounds. "But please know whatever it is I've missed that I love you more with each day that passes. That will never change."

Her nose nudges his as her fingers slowly wrap around his shoulders, and he rubs her arms in an attempt to restore warmth to her skin.

"I wouldn't trade our life together or the family we've made for all the riches in the world," he adds, drawing her closer. "You and our children are everything in this life I could ever want and far more than I deserve. And even though we may not have had the easiest road to travel, I would choose you again and again. Every time. Every day. Every second for the rest of our lives."

He hears her sniff, feels her shudder, and he swallows hard as his heart sinks under the knowledge that he did this—he made her cry. He curses himself for the umpteenth time, wishing for once that a memory potion was close at hand so he could jar loose what he's forgotten, something obviously important to her.

"That's it," she whispers as she finally looks him in the eye. She's smiling through her tears now, that smile that captured his heart the first time she shot it his way, and he exhales in relief. "That's exactly it."

"What?" he questions, stroking her hair, touching her face, rubbing her back, unable to stop touching this woman who commands his soul.

"Today," she responds. "Choosing me."

He must look as confused as he feels, for she rolls her eyes at him, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

"Five years ago today," she voices, her tone low and resonant. "You chose me."

The bench. The lake. Page twenty-three.

Dear God, how could he have forgotten?

His insides are melting, there's no other way to describe it, and he's lost to her all over again, breathing in this woman who has become such a part of his life that he doesn't know where he ends and she begins.

"Best decision I ever made," he assures her, feeling her chilled skin prickle against his palms.

She gazes back at him with eyes wounded many times over. But they're alight now, and full, and brimming with the same promise of hope he'd seen five years ago before fate tore them apart for months on end. He would never walk away from her again.

"You're my life, Regina."

Her lips find his in an instant.

He's not sure when his clothes vanished or just how they made it up to their bedroom. But he's thankful, profoundly thankful for two sons and a daughter, for second chances and twists of fate, for the love of this woman who turned his life right-side up.

His wife. His Regina.

His Everything.


	7. Baby Love

_Here is the promised follow-up to Dropping the Ball. I hope you enjoy it. :)_

_And Happy Valentine's Day! :D_

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><p>He's watching her again.<p>

He has been for days. More so than normal, a bit too close for comfort.

"Have I grown antlers?"

He blinks in surprise, his brow furrowing as he attempts to decipher exactly what she means.

"Not that I've noticed," he replies, moving in close, settling his hand on her hips just after they skim her waist. He's been doing that a lot, lately, touching her stomach. "Why do you ask?"

"You're staring," she returns. "A lot."

"Am I not allowed to stare at my beautiful wife?"

He's stalling, and he's terrible at stalling.

"Not when you're looking at me like I might turn myself into a dragon at any moment."

"Well, there is a bit of steam coming out of your ears," he quips, his voice rich and full-bodied. "It's rather cute, actually."

"And you're teasing me," she observes incredulously. "Aren't you the least bit concerned about how I'll react?"

His chuckle warms her insides like hot buttered rum.

"I married a woman who can produce fireballs at will," he returns with a shrug of his shoulders. "I think I can survive some dragon flame and brimstone."

Her mouth betrays her, lips tugging upwards in a reluctant grin in spite of her determination to remain peeved.

"Being cocky can get you in trouble," she warns, her inner purr notching up a gear or two as his fingers slide back over her rear end.

"It may have already," he rebuts, his lips finding hers, silencing her brilliant retort before it gets off her tongue. "But you like it when I'm cocky. Admit it."

She rubs against him as his mouth opens in time with hers, her insides tingling like mad as his palms kneed her ass in all the right places. One hand maneuvers its way to her breast, his thumb tracing lazy circles that make her nipples stand to attention on contact.

"You realize its mid-afternoon," she breathes, pressing into his growing erection as his skin begins to heat.

"You realize I don't care," he returns into her neck. "The boys are gone for the night, and Hope is at Mary Margaret and David's playing with Neal until after supper. Plenty of time."

His fingers are on the move again, crossing the expanse of her chest, tracing her arm, moving down her abdomen, flittering just over her naval…then staying there.

He's centered on her stomach again. She pushes him back.

"What are you doing?"

His face is flushes, his eyes blinking back at her with more questions than answers.

"I should think it was fairly obvious," he answers. "Why did you stop me?"

Her hand rakes through her hair as she tries to steady her breathing.

"My stomach," she accuses, laying her hand where his had just been. "Why the hell do you keep touching my stomach? You've been doing it for days now."

His eyes stray down, his expression giving away his guilt as easily as if he'd verbally confessed.

"You're acting like you did when I was pregnant," she continues, her head shaking until the truth of the matter is staring her in the face with the subtlety of a Mack truck barreling straight ahead. "Wait—do you think I'm pregnant?"

He steps back into her space, gazing into her as he does all too often.

"Are you?"

Her mouth drops open, her eyes narrowing in confusion as she tries to find the right response. It hits her like a ton of bricks, that he suspects, that he's this observant, that he is always seeing more than she realizes she's showing despite her best efforts to rein things in.

"Do you want me to be?"

His head tilts back as he draws in a breath, his hand rubbing his scalp, his lips pressed in tight.

"I don't know."

Shit. What is she supposed to do with that?

"You don't…"

"I don't know, Regina," he cuts in, obviously torn in several directions at once. "I'd love to have another baby with you—there's no question about that. I love our children more than my own life, and having Hope—God, she's a bloody miracle. I loved how your body felt when she was inside you, all rounded and ripe and glorious. And watching you cradle her, watching you nurse our baby girl, it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. But…"

He stops abruptly, staring down at her, cupping her shoulders in his hands, pulling her a breath closer.

"But…?" she prompts, her soul teetering on the edge of a cliff.

"But we're older," he states, looking down at his boots. "Both of us. And having Hope was hard on you. I worried, the entire time you were in labor, when they finally took you in for a C-section, when I was sitting in the waiting room scared out of my mind…"

His forehead is on hers now, his breath gently painting her skin.

"I can't risk you," he confesses. "I can't. You're too much to me, you're in my soul, you're, you're…"

He's breathing heavily, his chest moving in and out with force, his face tight with emotion.

"You're my life."

His hands cup her face, and she lays hers atop his, leaning into him, feeling how much he loves her, astonished by the force of it as she always is, no matter the years they've been together.

"I'm not," she whispers, feeling him shudder against her as he draws back an inch. "Pregnant, that is."

His swallow is so loud she can hear it, and she spies disappointment as well as relief as she rests her cheek in his palm.

"Why did you think that I was?"

Her throat is dry—drier than it should be.

"I found a test," he admits, his gaze somewhere just past her shoulder. "I was looking for toothpaste, but I found…"

"An open pregnancy test," she completes, filling in the blanks. "I missed a cycle, so I needed to make sure. That happens sometimes, but still…"

He's looking at her again, nudging her chin up to afford him a better view.

"Are you disappointed?" he questions.

Her shoulders drop a few notches.

"Maybe," she confesses, looking back into his eyes. "A little…yes."

He holds her then, tight enough into his chest so that she feels his every heartbeat.

"I love you," he breathes.

"I love you, too," she echoes as her thumb crests over his lower lip, her pulse three steps ahead of her body. "Robin..."

She pauses, the right words dangling just beyond her reach.

"Hmmm?" he prods as his fingers wind into her hair.

"I want another baby."

There. She's said it. And he's staring at her completely dumbstruck, as if he's just been slammed by a memory curse.

"Regina—"

"Hear me out," she insists, raising a hand to ward off any protests. "I know it could be risky to me. I went to see my doctor a few weeks ago, actually, to see if it would be ok if we…gave it another go."

"And?" he nudges.

"And," she sighs. "She doesn't think it's a good idea."

He shakes his head.

"Then we shouldn't consider it," he states. "Not if it puts you at risk."

"Let me finish," she cuts in, laying her palms on his chest. "Please."

He stops and breathes, the worry etched in his features making her love him all the more.

"I'd like us to consider adopting."

His jaw falls open, his eyes as round as she's ever seen them.

"Really?" he breathes. "How long…when did you…?"

"I've been thinking about it for a year now," she admits, his double-take alerting her to the full measure of his surprise.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he questions. His hand strokes his beard before taking hers and pulling it to his chest. "Before today?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "It's a big decision—I know, believe me. But…"

"But?" he prompts, cupping her face again, making her legs feel no steadier than jello.

"I love being a mom."

His broad smile rips her open in all the right ways.

"You're an amazing mother," he whispers with a kiss to her temple. "To all of our children."

"I've made more than my share of mistakes," she counters. "I know this. But we both love all of our children equally, even though only one of them is biologically ours. And as miraculous as holding Hope was after she was born, it was no more beautiful than when I first held Henry."

He's nodding now, squeezing her fingers just so.

"We both know we that biology doesn't matter in this family," she continues. "That any child we bring into our home will be as much a part of us as Hope and Henry and Roland."

"But you're not content with just the three?" he asks, still obviously trying to digest all she's just tossed on his plate.

"No," she sighs. "I mean, yes, I am. Content, that is." She falters, collecting both of his hands in hers, toying with his fingers. "It's just that children make me better."

His brow creases immediately.

"What do you mean?"

"I've caused so much destruction in my life," she expounds, her voice dropping a few notches. "I've done things I'll never be able to erase. But when I'm raising my children, I feel like I'm doing something good, something that makes me a better person, something that really matters."

"Regina," he begins. "You don't need to keep trying to redeem yourself. You've done that, many times over, and you're the best woman I know. Our children are lucky to have you as their mother, luckier than any children on the planet, as far as I'm concerned."

She kisses the tip of his nose.

"And I love you for that," she whispers, her insides tense and full. "I love our children. But there's room in my heart for another baby, for one who…who needs us."

He's watching her, saying nothing but hearing so much.

"What would have happened if Zelena had been taken in by parents who loved her? Think about it."

This takes him by surprise, but he pulls her closer, clearly considering her words.

"And Emma," she sighs, her eyes unable to hold his any longer. "She was raised in homes because of me—because of my curse. I took her family from her…"

"And she has them now," Robin interjects. "She has her parents, Henry, Killian and little Liam."

He stops, breathing in a deep breath of sudden understanding. He'd watched her hold the infant last week at Granny's, had seen how cradling the newborn had affected her.

"But I can't give that time back," she voices unsteadily. "To Emma, or to David or Mary Margaret."

"They don't expect you to," he returns. "And they've forgiven you for your past, just as you've forgiven them."

"Like I said, I know I can't change what I've done," she manages, swallowing down the stickiness in her throat. "But I can give another child their best chance. We can—you and I and our kids. We can give them a home and a family who loves them."

She's trembling, and he rubs her back, the expression in his eyes almost too much for her to take in.

"You constantly amaze me," he breathes, drawing her into his body. "Do you know that?"

Her eyes are filling far too fast, and tears fall as she blinks, his fingers brushing the moisture to the side.

"That's because you're easily impressed," she retorts, making him laugh as he hugs her all the closer.

"No," he assures her. "Just the opposite, as you well know."

They stand there, wrapped up in each other, the weight of his palm on the back of her head the most comforting thing she's ever known.

"Alright."

It's whispered into her hair, but she feels it all over, as if pixie dust has been unleased across her skin.

"Alright?" she echoes, her lips twitching.

"Let's do this," he smiles, laughing at the squeal of joy that escapes her. "Let's add one more to this madcap family of ours."

Her arms fly around his neck as his chuckle warms her ribs, and he lifts her off the ground, making her nearly cackle.

"You're sure?" she questions, laughing again as he nods and bites that blasted lower lip of his.

"Thank you," she manages through tears and a smile, touching streaks of silver in his beard that make him all the sexier. "It's just so much more than I ever thought I'd have."

He tosses her a look, one she's seen many times but still gets to her all over.

"That's what happy endings are all about, isn't it?" he grins as he sweeps her off her feet once more, carrying her towards the sofa that sparked the rich tapestry that is now her life.


End file.
